


Bucky Shincracker

by DawnBlossom (DescartesasaurusRex)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Fluff, Reader-Insert, Romance, dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-19 11:45:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7359934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DescartesasaurusRex/pseuds/DawnBlossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's curious to see if he's still a good dancer. Some things, the body just doesn't forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sunday, Monday...

**Author's Note:**

> The title's a pun on "ducky shincracker," an old-fashioned slang phrase meaning that someone's a good dancer.
> 
> The first two chapters are both the same story, with the first chapter told from the reader's perspective and the second chapter from Bucky's. The third chapter is sort of an epilogue, from the reader's perspective.

It’s 1:00AM, and you can’t sleep. You decide that, rather than tossing and turning, you’re going to get up and do something about it. You tie your hair back tight in a high ponytail and pull on a black sports bra and bike shorts, plus the sneakers that you use for indoor circuit training. There shouldn’t be anyone at the gym this time of night, so you leave your iPod behind. You look forward to blaring metal over the speaker system downstairs.  
     You take the stairs down to the gym. The elevator in the Avenger’s tower is plenty fast, but it can make you feel a little queasy, especially when you’re sleep deprived. Plus, it feels like an odd waste to skip taking the stairs when headed to the gym.  
     When you arrive at the gym, you pause at the door to listen. Silence. You smile to yourself and open the door.  
     Bucky Barnes stops dead in his tracks, arms dropping hurriedly from a ballroom frame. He takes a second before turning to face you, which gives you a chance to hide your shock. When he looks at you, his face is casual as can be.  
     “Whatcha doing?” you ask him, putting a hand on your hip. You’re almost teasing him. Almost.  
     He thinks about lying. You can see it on his face. He hesitates before finally saying, “I wasn’t ready to sleep. Figured no one else was gonna come down here. I… I was seeing if I remembered how to dance.”  
     You feel a tiny stab of guilt in your heart. You’ve intruded on something very private. He’s worked hard to uncover his memories, his personality, and he hates doing it in front of other people. You open your mouth to offer to leave, but find yourself saying instead, “Why don’t you have any music?”  
     He smiles a lopsided smile, something a little roguish and a little embarrassed. “Wouldn’t know how to make it work. Besides… I don’t know how long I planned to be down here.”  
     “I can put something on for you,” you offer.  
     He raises an eyebrow. “No offense, but I don’t think I can dance to your music.”  
     You put a hand to your heart in mock hurt. “And you said you liked Iron Maiden.” He chuckles. “I like lots of music, Buck. And FRIDAY can play anything you like. Right, FRIDAY?”  
     “Yes, Ms. (L/N),” the disembodied voice replies lightly.  
     Bucky thinks for a minute. “Uh, FRIDAY, could you play ‘Sunday, Monday, or Always’?”  
     “Which version would you prefer, Mr. Barnes?”  
     He turns to you. “You like Crosby or Sinatra?”  
     You aren’t sure why he’s asking you, but you reply, “Crosby.”  
     He grins. “Me, too. Make that Bing Crosby’s original recording, FRIDAY.”  
     “Here you are, Mr. Barnes.”  
     The music begins to play over the speakers in the room. Bucky holds out his right hand. “Care to help me remember?”  
     Your heart skips. “You sure?” You reach out to take his hand, tentatively.  
     “Course, doll.” He takes your hand and leans in conspiratorially. “It was kind of awkward dancing alone.” His low voice stuns you a little, and he takes the opportunity to snake his right hand behind your back, resting it on your shoulder blade and propping your arm up with his. His metal hand makes him hesitate just a little, so you gently rest your right hand in his left. He adjusts his grip on you with confidence and steps forward, leading you with firm but gentle hands.  
     You had always thought of yourself as a good dancer, but something about this song is making your movements awkward. You try to give in and let Bucky move your body, but you know you aren’t being the best partner. You blush with frustration.  
     “It’s just four-four, (Y/N). Doesn’t sound like it, I know.” He softly counts for you, leading you to step on one, hesitate on two, and then make side steps on three and four. The dance gets easier, but something about his counting is distractingly sweet. “It’s a foxtrot, just a waltz with a hesitation.”  
     “I think you remember more than you expected.”  
     “Some things, the body just doesn’t forget.” For some reason, that makes you flush a little, but his advice makes the dance easier. Noticing your competence, he changes to a travelling step. You catch on more quickly this time, even remembering to sway your hips.

_No need to tell me now what makes the world go round  
When, at the sight of you, my heart begins to pound and pound…_

In the first bridge, Bucky leans in to whisper, “Just keep doin’ what you’re doin’, doll. Don’t be nervous.” Before you can ask why, he gives your back a little push, turning you under his arm. You continue your steps as he comes around to meet you. “Just like that.” He sways you to the background vocals before picking back up the steps with Bing Crosby’s sweet voice, throwing in little turns and flourishes. Nothing fancy, just enough to keep you on your toes.

_If you’re satisfied, I’ll be at your side…_

You could have sworn you heard something like a soft voice in the midst of your turn, but when you come back around to Bucky again, his face hasn’t changed expression. He continues to lead you like nothing happened, sending you through two gentle stationary turns under his arm while Crosby and his backup singers dwell on how their hearts begin to _pound… pound…_  
     This time, when Bucky pulls you back, he’s a little closer to you and unmistakably mouthing the words. “What am I to do? Can’t I be with you?”

_Sunday…_  
He turns you once again.

_Monday…_  
He pulls you closer this time.

_Or Always…?_  
He stands stock still as the singers hold the last note, brushing a piece of hair out of your face. This time _your_ heart is pounding. For a moment, you can’t move, and you stand there telling yourself not to feel his body heat, not to look at his lips.  
     You make yourself laugh to break the tension, and his surprise loosens his grip. You take advantage of that to step back. He scratches the back of his neck, looking a little sheepish.  
     “Guess I got carried away in the music,” he says, a little too quickly.  
     “Is that how you used to get girls back in the day?” you ask with a smirk, tucking the loose piece of hair behind your ear.  
     “Sometimes,” he replies with a shrug. Then he grins wolfishly and steps forward. “Why, was it working?”  
     You try to hide the smile that plays on your lips. “Maybe.”  
     He takes your hand and pulls you back to him. “Then maybe I should keep trying. Play it again, FRIDAY.”  
     You flush slightly and laugh for an entirely different reason as he sweeps you across the gym floor.


	2. Or Always...?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story from Bucky's point of view.

Bucky Barnes shifts awkwardly from side to side. He hasn’t danced in over 70 years.  
     He stands alone in Avenger’s tower’s silent gym. Nobody’s here to watch, but he feels foolish anyway.  
     He holds his arms out in front of him. He used to be really good at dancing. A real ducky shincracker. He smiles to himself, pretty sure that he remembers Steve jokingly calling him a “Bucky shincracker” once or twice. But when he earned that nickname, he didn’t have a metal arm.  
     He holds himself in an open position, weight slightly off his heels so that he’d be light on his feet; right arm curved forward as if around a lady, his elbow up to support hers; left arm forward, elbow bent, hand ready for a dame to rest hers in.  
     _Who would rest her hand in this monstrosity?_ he thinks to himself. Your face crosses his mind, and his stomach flutters. _Don’t get ahead of yourself, soldier. Let’s see if you can still dance, first._  
     Despite his discomfort, he can feel that his arms are in the right place. Muscle memory. He takes a long step forward with his right leg, then two light side steps. He can’t think of music, so he just counts in his head. _1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3…_ He feels his chest turn slightly to the side on the forward step, his hips slightly lag on the side steps, adding naturally stylish shape and sway. _Not bad, Barnes_ , he tells himself.  
     He prepares himself to see if he can remember anything more complicated than a basic step, but then he hears a noise and freezes, dropping his arms. It was the door, he knows it. He could be in for a lot of teasing, depending on who saw what. Bucky takes a deep breath and makes his face neutral before turning around and _oh god, it’s (Y/N)._  
     “Whatcha doin’?” you ask innocently, putting a hand on your hip. You aren’t even wearing a shirt, just a sports bra and tight shorts. Jesus. You look ready to tease, but you’re always sweet to Bucky.  
     Bucky finds himself telling the truth. “I wasn’t ready to sleep. Figured no one else was gonna come down here. I… I was seeing if I remembered how to dance.”  
     You’re quiet for a second, and he braces himself for laughter, for disappointment. He doesn’t know whether he’s more embarrassed to be a super soldier practicing a waltz or to be Bucky Barnes and unsure of his footwork. Before he can say anything else, you ask, “Why don’t you have any music?”  
     It’s a fair question. He lets a smile onto his face. “Wouldn’t know how to make it work,” he tells you honestly. He doesn’t understand how to work much more than a record player, and Tony doesn’t keep turntables down in the gym. “Besides… I don’t know how long I planned to be down here.”  
     “I can put something on for you,” you offer. His mind flashes to the music he hears you listen to, stuff forty years past what would have been his prime, all bass and drums and noise. Stuff he should have encountered as an old man but found himself liking anyway.  
     Stuff that was no good to waltz to. It was his turn to tease. He raises an eyebrow at you. “No offense, but I don’t think I can dance to your music.”  
     You hold your hand to your heart, pretending to be wounded. It’s funny and somehow sweet. You’re making a joke with him, not afraid that he’ll misinterpret. “And you said you liked Iron Maiden.” Bucky chuckles. “I like lots of music, Buck. And FRIDAY can play anything you like. Right, FRIDAY?” He can’t seem to get used to disembodied all-powerful robots or hearing his name on your lips.  
     “Yes, Ms. (L/N),” FRIDAY replies from everywhere and nowhere. Bucky shakes himself and tries to think. This is a _chance._ You’re right here, and you aren’t laughing at him.  
     He stands up a little straighter. “Uh, FRIDAY, could you play ‘Sunday, Monday, or Always’?” he asks.  
     “Which version would you prefer, Mr. Barnes?”  
     Bucky turns to you. Might as well make it lady’s choice. “You like Crosby or Sinatra?”  
     “Crosby,” you answer without hesitation. He grins. Sinatra has class, but Crosby’s voice is smoother and more emotional, and he has a soft spot for the song because of Crosby.  
     “Me, too. Make that Crosby’s original recording, FRIDAY.”  
     “Here you are, Mr. Barnes.”  
     The music starts up, and he holds out his hand. The real one. “Care to help me remember?” he asks you, as invitingly as he can. Some small part of him still remembers this, just like his arms remembered their positions. Muscle memory.  
     “You sure?” you ask, reaching your hand out slowly. He can’t quite tell whether you don’t want to intrude or whether you’re nervous. Either way, he decides to reassure you.  
     “Course, doll.” He takes your hand and leans in, like he’s telling you a secret, lowering his voice a little, making it just a little seductive. “It was kind of awkward dancing alone.” In the moment you look stunned, he pulls you into position, but he hesitates with his left hand. _Who would rest her hand in this monstrosity?_ Almost as if sensing his hesitation, you set your right hand in his left. He adjusts himself and starts to lead you in a basic box step.  
     You seem a little nervous, your steps perfect but timing not quite right. It doesn’t look like inexperience. Your cheeks are tinged pink, and it’s the prettiest thing he’s seen in a long time. “It’s just four-four, (Y/N). Doesn’t sound like it, I know.” He counts quietly, hoping that he doesn’t offend you. He leads you firmly, enjoying the way that you respond to his hands, moving your body under his direction. He feels a little flushed and distracts himself with more advice. “It’s a foxtrot, just a waltz with a hesitation.”  
     “I think you remember more than you expected,” you tell him, lips forming a sweetly wry smile. His pulse speeds up at the compliment.  
     “Some things, the body just doesn’t forget.” That didn’t come out quite the way he intended it, but he continues with confidence, moving into a travelling step, sweeping you around the room. You’ve started to match his shape and sway – he can feel your upper body twist, see your hips swing out of the corner of his eye.  
     He has to keep charming you, has to keep distracting himself. He whispers to you, “Just keep doin’ what you’re doin’, doll. Don’t be nervous.” He gives your back a little push and dances around you while you maintain your basic step, creating a simple underarm turn. “Just like that,” he says when he has you in his arms again, and he’s not sure if he means the turn or the sparkling look of surprise and pride in your eyes. Your cheeks are faintly pink again, and he thinks that you have to be as invested in this dance as he is. He sways you and turns you, singing almost inaudibly behind you while you have your back turned, “If you’re satisfied, I’ll be at your side…” When you come back to face him, you look curious, but he masks his feelings, enjoying this little game.  
     He turns you artfully with the music, enjoying how responsive you are, the way your face lights up when he leads you through something a little fancier than a basic step. He twirls you around slowly and pulls you closer, mouthing along the words at you, “What am I to do? Can’t I be with you?” Your eyes widen with surprise, and – he thinks, heart leaping – hope. “Sunday…” He spins you. “Monday…” He catches you, holding you still, making sure that your eyes are on his face. “Or Always…?” He brushes a strand of hair out of your face, unable to help himself, his fingers lingering on your skin. The note fades and the two of you just stand there. Your lips are slightly parted. He starts to lean in when you burst out laughing.  
     Bucky’s heart sinks. “Guess I got carried away in the music,” he says, trying to dismiss his behavior, to dismiss all of it. He knew he should have practiced more before dancing with you - he knew he wasn’t ready.  
     “Is that how you used to get girls back in the day?” you ask.  
     He shrugs. “Sometimes.” Wait, were you flirting? Maybe those eyes you were making, maybe that blush of pink across your cheeks… maybe those weren’t nothing. He grins and steps forward. “Why, was it working?”  
     You try not to smile, and he knows that the affection isn’t one-sided. “Maybe,” you respond coyly, looking up at him through your lashes so subtly it might even be subconscious.  
     You look for all the world like you’re sweet on him. Maybe’s good enough, especially if he can keep you glowing and blushing like that. He pulls you close. “Then maybe I should keep trying.” He’s rewarded with another flushed and a shy look. “Play it again, FRIDAY,” he calls to the computer.  
     This time, he’s determined to sweep you off your feet.


	3. "No need to tell me now what makes the world go 'round..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One last chapter, a mini sequel or epilogue to the previous two!

The familiar song starts up, and Bucky Barnes offers you his hand, his smile all smooth charm but his eyes glittering with delight. You take his hand graciously and let him lead you onto the floor, trying to look coy but knowing that your eyes must match his right now.  


Bucky twirls you into position, which causes a few whoops in the small crowd. He leads you through the dance, and you try to savor every moment. Graceful turns, little flourishes… You have to admit that it was a little choreographed, that the two of you had practiced.  


During a little bridge in the song, Bucky pulls you close to sway with you, quietly inhaling the moment. You try to commit to memory the way he feels pressed up to you, the clean lines of his black suit, his clean-shaven face and trimmed hair. You know he’s doing the same. He gives you a lopsided but affectionate grin and a wink before spinning you again, resuming your more complicated dancing.  


Bucky can never seem to resist singing the end of the song under his breath, his intense eyes studying your face almost as if he’s still waiting for an answer. Or maybe he just knows what that does to you and likes to watch your cheeks turn pink.  


Bucky sweeps you into a dip as the song comes to an end, making you laugh. That hadn’t been part of the plan, but you really should have known. He kisses you sweetly, and the guests applaud and cheer.  


When Bucky sets you back on your feet, you link arms with him and cuddle close to his side, ready to begin the rounds of mingling. “You know, Mr. Barnes, you’re a real Bucky Shincracker,” you tease affectionately.  


“Well, I have a pretty good partner, Mrs. Barnes.” And the way he squeezes your shoulder, you know he means it.


End file.
